


Of Fosters and Families

by WhisperingSkies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoption, Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, DadSchlatt, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Good dad Philza, I blame the Dadschlatt server for this, Light Angst, Neighbors, Older Sibling Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), POV Multiple, Parent Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Schlatt has no idea what he's doing, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Slice of Life, Tommy and Tubbo are best friends, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, there is a plot surprisingly, tommyinnit is a little shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingSkies/pseuds/WhisperingSkies
Summary: J. Schlatt has it all -- a cushy job, a fancy car, and a massive house, but when he starts fostering a young boy to compete with his neighbor Phil, he might find something more to life than work. At the same time, Phil takes in another foster child by the name of Wilbur, hoping to guide him through his senior year, but Wilbur doesn't want anything to do with another family-- or so he thinks.Basically, Sleepy Boys Inc & DadSchlatt neighbors fic, chaos ensues.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, ConnorEatsPants & Tubbo, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 302
Kudos: 665





	1. Growing Pains - Schlatt's POV

**Author's Note:**

> All characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes. I also ask that this work is not reposted anywhere or shared with any of the content creators. Thank you for your understanding! Enjoy!

Jonathan Schlatt started each and every morning with a smile. 

After waking pleasantly to the steady beep of his alarm, he would rise from his luxuriously bedded four-poster, feet finding the plush red carpeting that ran from his bedside to the hall and beyond. Wood flooring was a non-negotiable when he had purchased the house, but a chill seemed to seep into the planks in the night, and what better way to defeat two problems at once than with a carpet costing more than some folks’ rent? 

Following the distinguished path through the upper floor, Schlatt’s routine continued into the bathroom. One of his many fine suits hung on the back of the door, perfectly pressed and placed there the evening before by hands that were not his own. The mirror would fog for approximately ten minutes as he showered, emerging from the glass-walled chamber wrapped in the plushest of white robes. His toothpaste was cinnamon, his hair pomade scented with cognac, and his cologne ranged from cedar to patchouli, depending on his mood. 

Dressing was an affair he enjoyed immensely; there was no ritual like carefully done mother-of-pearl buttons and purposeful knotting of silk to lift a man to his proper position. Pulling on his suit jacket, Schlatt would spare a few moments of careful appraisal in the mirror, never finding anything to change but still enjoying the time spent with himself, before offering a signature grin and exiting the room to begin his day. 

Today, however, was different. He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but as he gazed into his own chestnut eyes-- studied the perfectly coiffed hair, the expertly maintained stubble, the perfect visage of a man with power staring back at him-- he watched the realization pass across his own face. 

_Oh, shit. I’m fostering a child._

Schlatt bolted from the bathroom like a bat out of hell, a sight foreign to most, nearly colliding with the routinely polished banister as he made a beeline for the bedroom down the hall. The heavy oak door was ajar, and Schlatt swore audibly as he felt his pulse jump higher than was probably healthy for a man of near-fourty. His head swam with something akin to panic but too self-involved to be worry; if he’d lost an entire child in one night, he’d surely be in deeper trouble than even his wallet could solve. Spinning on his heel, he nearly lost balance again as his socks slipped on the wood, but his speed took him back down the hall and rather unsafely down the curved stairwell, thankful for the purchase of the red carpet once again. 

“Toby?” 

His voice echoed through the large house, low and a bit more frantic-sounding than he’d ever admit. No reply came, and Schlatt let loose a few more curses as he rounded the downstairs hallway towards the kitchen. Coffee was brewing as scheduled in the unnecessarily elaborate machine sat atop gleaming marble countertops, with no evidence of any interference. The pantry was latched, no drawers left open, and not a crumb was strewn across any surface in the room. A blinking digital fixture on the fridge door displayed the time as 7:12 AM, confirmed by the early morning sun filtering gently through the windows. Schlatt doubled back sharply, bypassing the front door on his way to the living room and mentally confirming the still-locked fastener was in place. 

“Toby?” 

He scowled at the not-unexpected silence in return, irritated both at the disruption of his morning routine and the annoying twist of genuine worry that stung oh-so faintly in his chest. 

_Oh, god, what if he’d died?_

His rational side reminded him that the little shit had likely just escaped out a window or something, ungrateful and determined to find trouble. 

A search of the dining room returned nothing of use, same with the bath and laundry rooms. Schlatt was struck by how little he’d been in his own laundry room the moment he flicked on the light and found the space unfamiliar. A thought for later, he mused, as he tucked it away in a hurry. 

Fruitless, he was reminded of his incomplete search of the upper floors, and was about to endeavour back up the stairs when he heard a faint noise from… outside? Schlatt’s brow furrowed as he strode towards the back door, crossing through the empty living room with black leather couches undisturbed. The curtain was open a bit wider than he’d left it last, a glance out the spotless glass pane revealing a small body clad in green seated at the patio table. A tall white fence edged the yard, grass browning as the seasons shifted.

Pure relief passed through Schlatt’s body, all the tension in his muscles fading as his jaw unclenched. A quick inspection of himself in the reflection of the door revealed naught a hair out of place, which offered him with a bit of self-righteousness as he checked his obviously expensive watch. 7:19 AM; he’d have to make this quick. 

The kid didn’t flinch at the sound of the patio door sliding wide, so Schlatt stepped out into the fresh morning with as stern a look on his face as he could muster. There was a chill to the air, but the little brunette didn’t seem bothered, facing the direction of the sunrise with a content posture. A large tree Schlatt didn’t care enough to know the name of presided over the yard with turning leaves, sheltering a well-maintained garden of modest proportion and a patio equipped for large barbeques. 

“Toby,” Schlatt stated flatly, a bit louder than he’d meant. The kid, Toby, whipped around as if broken from a trance, and Schlatt was amazed to notice a gently steaming mug in his hands, the string of a tea bag draped gently over the side. His expression must have been a bit too harsh despite the annoyance in his tone because upon locking eyes with him, Toby’s comfortable smile faded into an upsetting gape of worry. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Schlatt,” he said, putting the mug down on the table as if it had burned him. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be awake, so I helped myself-- it was wrong, I shouldn't've--”

His accent thickened as he apologized, panic flooding his features as Schlatt slowly raised a hand to stop him.

“The tea isn’t the issue, kid. I thought you ran off.” 

Toby relaxed visibly, still looking too sorry for Schlatt’s liking. He felt a small prod of guilt himself for filling such innocent blue eyes with the fear that can only be known by someone used to harsh reactions, but pushed it away and glanced again at his watch. 

“Look, I’ll be back later. I’ll send Connor over with breakfast.” He looked his charge up and down. “Put a coat on.” 

Brushing off his sleeve for no reason other than something to do, Schlatt turned, not waiting for an affirmation from the kid. 

“Ah, Mr. Schlatt? Sorry--” 

“It’s fine,” Schlatt interrupted, taking a step towards the door, but the kid surprised him. 

“No, not about that, I mean, I am sorry about that, ah…” 

Making a show of a deep sigh and another watch glance, Schlatt moved back into the house and spun to face the kid again, a hand on the door’s handle. “Spit it out, kid.” 

“You don’t have to call me Toby,” Toby said. Something sparked in Schlatt’s memory and he hated himself for not remembering what the child services person had told him the day prior about the kid’s name. 

“He prefers Tubbo,” she’d said, without much of an explanation, but Schlatt understood without asking. After all, he avoided his first name at all costs, vastly in preference of Schlatt, or at the most, a simple ‘J’ initial. 

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. The ‘sorry, kid,’ stood on his tongue like a lead weight and he swallowed it, the little guilty part of his conscience growing by the second. 

“Noted.” 

He slid the patio door closed. 

_Why did you think you could be a parent, idiot?_

_You’re going to fuck this kid up._

_He’ll turn out worse than you._

Near five minutes later he was unlocking his sleek new car, intentions of getting coffee on the way to work dominating his thoughts as he slid into the leather interior. He spared a glance out his window at the house next door as he pulled out of the driveway, a familiar mix of anger, jealousy, and determination bubbling in his gut. 

_I’ll show him._

Schlatt put the car in drive, the stick sliding as smooth as butter, and stepped on the gas, leaving his self-hatred in the dust. 

Hours later, Phil Watson awoke from a peaceful sleep to a brand new day, oblivious to his neighbor’s chagrin.


	2. Domestic Bliss - Phil's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support on this story so far! 
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes. I also ask that this work is not reposted anywhere or shared with any of the content creators. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Tommy, could you grab the plates?” 

Phil wiped his gently beading forehead with the back of his hand, the heat from the stove rising near directly into his face as he flipped the sizzling mixture onto its other side. It was a bit more browned than he’d like, but he knew Tommy would eat it no matter how burnt the thing turned out. The kid could shovel an entire pizza into his mouth in ten minutes tops-- Phil had seen it happen. 

He waited a few moments, letting the pancake cook as the loud clattering of Tommy rifling through various cabinets echoed around the kitchen. He was grateful for the clamour, if he was being honest with himself. As much noise as Tommy made in everything he did, it was a sort of replacement for the eldest-son-shaped absence in the house. Techno had gone away to university nearly three years ago at this point, yet every day Phil woke without him in the house somehow hurt more. Especially now, after he’d been home all summer. Phil had found himself reveling in the brotherly banter that would trickle down the halls or up the stairs, seeming to find his ears no matter where in the house he was. 

“Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.” 

Tommy’s voice broke through his mental yearning, reminding him of the pancake currently burning in front of him. He turned the stove off quickly, sliding the poor pancake onto the pile with all the others and setting the spatula down on the countertop currently strewn with batter. 

“Sorry, yeah?” He turned, stack of pancakes in hand, placing the plate down on the battered wooden table smack-dab in the middle of the room. Sure, they had a dining room, but Phil couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually eaten in there. 

“You were spacing out again.” 

Tommy eyed the platter with hungry eyes as Phil settled into his own chair, an empty plate and cup of steaming coffee set out for him. Within the single moment he’d looked away from his son, the barely-a-teenager had piled his plate with pancakes and sufficiently drowned the stack in maple syrup. 

Phil took a deep sip of his coffee, the mug emblazoned with a variation of the many ‘#1 Dad’ graphics that decorated most of their drinkware. Tommy took a moment from inhaling pancakes to push a few from the center onto Phil’s plate, and Phil nodded his thanks. 

Mid-morning light filled the modest kitchen with a warm comfort. Phil’s terry-cloth robe hung open over his mismatched pajamas, matching the energy of his youngest son’s random T-shirt, striped pants, and absolute mess of blonde hair. They’d made the agreement to sleep in today, and Phil couldn’t be more grateful for it. An LED on the stovetop blinked 11:27AM, and for once, having breakfast for lunch wasn’t causing anyone to be late for anything. 

“Sorry, kiddo. Have any plans today?” 

“You told me I can’t throw rocks at Schlatt’s house anymore, so… no.” 

There was the mischievous spark in Tommy’s eyes that Phil loved-- so different from Techno, and yet so similar. He supposed he probably had his own spark as well, something he’d accidentally passed onto the boys growing up. 

They ate for a bit, with Tommy somehow managing to consume another plateful while Phil steadily chipped away at his helping, accompanied by generous slips of coffee. 

“Do you think he’ll like us?” 

Phil paused mid-forkful, locking eyes with his youngest and glimpsing a flash of genuine worry in the blue. He chewed, swallowed, and cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, I do. He’s… it might take him a little while to get used to us, though. He’s quiet.”

“Like you said Techno was? When you first got him?” 

Phil cracked a smile at that. Tommy loved the stories about when he’d first started to foster Techno; the boy hadn’t spoken a word for the first few days, just pointing at things. Phil had been concerned he’d done something wrong, frantically searching the internet for things like _‘do eight year olds have a silent phase?’_

One day, Phil had rented a movie for them to watch together, a classic fantasy adventure. Techno had sat enraptured from the first second, eyes wide and mouth agape. During one of the sword fights between the main characters, he’d heard a quiet gasp from the kid, and turned to find Techno looking at him with wonder. 

“Can I have one of those?” 

Phil had been overjoyed in that moment, nevermind the fact that he probably shouldn’t have been excited about a literal child wanting a weapon, and promised Techno he could as soon as he was old enough.

“No, not like Techo,” he told Tommy, who made a noise somewhere between relief and laughter. “He’s quiet like… someone that’s got a lot of thinking to do.” 

“Aw, well he better not be boring,” Tommy huffed, picking up his syrupy mess of a plate and heading to the sink. 

A stern tone crept into Phil’s voice. “Hey, no talk like that tomorrow. You remember what it’s like to be moved around, and he’s been in the system way longer than you. Kids his age usually don’t get a family in the end.” 

Tommy grumbled for a moment, his back to the table as he washed his plate clean. “I didn’t mean it bad,” he offered, and Phil nodded. 

“I know that, but he might not. We don’t know what he’s been through.” 

There was a sort of silence for a minute, interrupted only by the rushing of the faucet and gentle clink of dishes. 

“I think those were your best batch yet,” Tommy said, shutting off the water and returning to the table, hovering nearby his dad’s chair. Phil stood, sensing a hug, and the moment he did, Tommy nearly jumped into his arms. 

“Thank you for--” the muffled voice came from the kid’s face buried in his robe, and Phil cut him off immediately. 

“Don’t thank me for being my son. I wouldn’t have given you up for anything. You came into this house for a reason.” He placed a quick kiss on the blonde mess, seeing how much fatherly affection he could get away with, and the young teen quickly shook him off. 

“Love you,” Phil teased as Tommy made a face at him, turning and heading out of the kitchen. He watched him go, a soft smile of reminiscence spreading across his face.

It had been fourteen years since Phil started fostering. His first was Techno, and he knew the moment the boy had spoken that he didn’t intend on letting him go back into the system. A year went by in a blink, then two, and Phil filed the papers as soon as he was able. He asked, of course, if Techno wanted to stay with him, and he’d never forget the feeling of Techno’s little arms wrapped around his shoulders, small wet spots appearing on his shirt as the kid had sobbed an elated yes. 

He’d taken Tommy in almost seven years later. The blonde had been even younger than Techno was when Phil first met him, but he had none of the silent contemplation of the older boy. Tommy was a tornado, wild and energetic, and it took everything Phil had to keep up with him. He was used to Techno, who’d rather read a book than most other things, and had been given Tommy, who taught himself how to open the fridge just so he could crack eggs on the kitchen floor and laugh himself sick about it. Phil had always loved kids, even dealt with some of the rowdier ones when he was working as a teacher, but nothing like Tommy had ever crossed his path before-- and yet, he knew with that same gut feeling that he wouldn’t let him go either. Another year or so and their happy family of two had grown to three, much to the excitement of both boys. 

Phil never fostered without the intention to adopt, and the same was true for the seventeen-year-old that would be joining them tomorrow. It would be a new experience, to try and parent someone already so mature, but Phil was confident he could at least lend the boy support as he went through his senior year. Switching schools was hard enough, but living in a new house at the same time was sure to be taxing, and although he knew Tommy meant well, he couldn’t help but worry if they’d get along. 

“DAD!” he heard Tommy holler from upstairs. 

_How did he get up there so fast?_

“WHAT?” Phil yelled back, rolling his eyes. 

“WHEN THE HELL DID SCHLATT HAVE A KID?” 

About to chide Tommy for his language, the words ‘Schlatt’ and ‘kid’ echoed around his head. 

“WHAT?” 

The telltale thumping of Tommy running down the carpeted stairs sounded from his right, and he came bursting around the corner with red cheeks. 

“There’s a kid in Schlatt’s garden.” 

The pair exchanged a look as Phil worked out that Tommy was serious, and in unison they both started a mad dash up the stairs to the window in Tommy’s room that happened to face Schlatt’s yard. 

A brunette in a green shirt who looked about Tommy’s age was kneeling in front of a bed of withering flowers. Phil couldn’t really see what he was doing, but his actions were gentle and his posture content. 

Tommy laughed, the sound seeming to bubble from his throat almost unintentionally. “Do you think he knows who’s yard it is?” 

Phil’s brows drew together in concern as he considered the likely course of actions by his less-than-understanding neighbor if he were to find a neighborhood child rummaging around in his backyard. 

“I’ve never seen him around before,” Phil mentioned, trying to mentally place the kid in any house on the street and failing to do so. 

“Maybe the dickwad kidnapped him,” his son snickered, and Phil turned his head to give him a look of gentle reprimand.

“Just kidding.” 

A sigh escaped the thirty-something as he stepped away, rubbing his temples in thought. 

_Should I call someone?_

_I should go down there._

“Tommy, keep an eye on him, I’ll go over. Call me if he bolts.” Phil nodded to Tommy, who gave a playful salute before turning back to the window. 

Minutes later, Phil was stepping out into his own backyard, thankful for his cozy robe and slippers to keep the early autumn chill from reaching him. He approached the fence with caution, finding the city-mandated gate between the walled off yard of his neighbor and his own unruly grass. Peeking over, he could see the kid still crouched near the flowers, and from this distance he could hear him… humming? 

He shot a glance up towards the window where Tommy was, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Uh, hi there,” Phil started, and the kid jumped a bit as he turned to see who was speaking. 

His eyes were a bright blue, just like Tommy’s, and the innocence in his face struck Phil with such an emotional resemblance to his youngest that he was momentarily forgotten in his purpose. The youth studied him quizzically from a distance, and Phil cleared his throat. 

“Are you lost?” 

The kid looked embarrassed, and Phil was sure he was about to admit to trespassing or something. 

“Actually, I… live here. I suppose, I mean, I’m Mr. Schlatt’s foster.” He approached the fence gate where Phil was standing with reasonable caution. “Who are you?” 

The older man’s jaw nearly dropped at the information, but he kept it together, filing the reaction away for later. Suddenly concerned with how odd this interaction must be from the boy’s perspective, Phil gave a sheepish chuckle. “Phil Watson, I live next door.” He vaguely gestured to the house behind him, and he watched as the brunette kid followed his movement to look directly up at the window where Tommy was staring. Upon seeing Tommy, the other child’s face seemed to light up, and he looked back to Phil. 

“I’m Tubbo. Nice to meet you, Mr. Watson. Is that your son?” 

Phil spared a glance to the window, where Tommy had badly hidden himself behind his bookshelf in the most obvious way possible. 

“Please, call me Phil. And yeah, that’s Tommy.” 

Tubbo smiled. “Well, could you tell Tommy nice to meet him as well?” 

“Of course.” Phil paused awkwardly, not sure how to end the conversation, although his head was swimming with the revelation. “If you ever need anything, feel free to come by.” 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Phil.” Tubbo looked up at the window once more, then back at the flowerbed, and back to Phil. “Well, I’ll see you!” 

“Sure thing,” Phil replied warmly, turning away from the gate and heading back inside. 

_Schlatt’s fostering?_

_I should definitely call someone._

_How did he even get approved--_

“WHO THE HELL IS HE?” Tommy shouted from upstairs the second Phil closed the back door. 

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS.” 

Then came the familiar quick steps down the stairs, and Tommy nearly vaulted himself over the railing to meet Phil in the front hall. 

“Is he a runaway? Or a criminal?” Tommy’s wide eyes shone with interest. 

Phil shook his head in disbelief, brows tucked neatly together in the center of his forehead.  
“He’s… Schlatt’s foster kid.” 

A look of absolute befuddlement passed slowly over Tommy’s young face, his jaw falling agape as he stared at Phil with indescribable confusion. 

“WHAT THE FUCK??” 

“Tommy, jesus--” 

“WHAT THE--” 

“--Stop it--” 

“--FUCK???”

“His name is Tubbo--” 

Phil stopped as Tommy dramatically sank to the floor, mouth still wide open in disbelief as his mind ran through every possibility. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it either; Schlatt, his neighbor, the incredibly important businessman? Schlatt, the extravagantly wealthy, rude, indulgent ass who’d nearly hit Tommy with his car on more than one occasion? Schlatt, who had threatened to sue Phil one winter when Tommy had accidentally beaned him with a snowball? Schlatt, _the_ J. Schlatt, who once had mentioned to Phil that he’d rather skinnydip with hungry sharks than ever have a child? 

Phil shrugged at his son with the same incredulity painted across Tommy’s expression. 

“He seems quite nice, actually. You should invite him over.” 

Tommy sputtered an objection from the floor, a mix of unintelligible noises summing up to, “Hang out with Schlatt’s kid?” 

“Listen,” Phil said, lowering himself down onto the floor next to Tommy with a grunt. “It seems lonely over there, and he looks your age. You’ll probably be in class with him soon anyways.” 

Tommy looked at Phil with a sort of, _‘do I have to?’_ written across his features, and Phil nodded slowly. 

“If he’s a git, you never have to speak to him again, okay?” 

Making a show of huffing over it, Tommy slowly drew himself to his feet and trudged to the stairs. 

“It’s chilly out,” Phil offered, and Tommy spun on his heel to face his dad. 

“YOU WANT ME TO GO NOW?” 

“You said you had no plans,” Phil grinned, standing as well. 

Tommy threw his hands up in the air and retreated up the stairs, grumbling under his breath as he went. 

Brushing his hands together as if wiping them off, Phil chuckled to himself over Tommy’s obvious overcompensation-- he wasn’t blind, the kid had been longing for someone to talk to with Techno gone again. 

A half-hour or so later, Phil stood upstairs in Tommy’s room, watching his son speak to Tubbo over the gate. The darker-haired of the two boys unlatched it from his side, allowing Tommy entrance to the garden, and the pair immediately made themselves comfortable around the trunk of the large tree in the yard. He watched for a few more minutes, just until he saw Tommy’s chest-shaking laugher as they conversed. 

Phil smiled; parenting well done. His thoughts turned to the boy arriving tomorrow. 

_Don’t worry, Wilbur. You’ll fit in here. I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, Dadza content!! 
> 
> I just want to clear up a few age things real quick-- in this fic, Phil is 36, Schlatt is 35, Tommy is 13, Tubbo is 14, Techno is 22, and Wilbur is 17! :) If that's helpful information, I can let you know the ages of other characters as they appear. 
> 
> Drop a comment and let me know what you're excited for! Have a wonderful week everybody, see you next Monday.


	3. A New Home - Wilbur's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Happy Monday! 
> 
> All characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes. I also ask that this work is not reposted anywhere or shared with any of the content creators.
> 
> Enjoy!

_I don’t belong here._

Wilbur stood on the doorstep, a colourful welcome mat beneath his worn-out sneakers. The house was large, but not much larger than most of the homes he’d stayed in before; he doubted this one would be any different. He was a runaway kid, the kind that never finds a home because the people watching him get tired of waiting for him to bolt, or push him back to the agency with disappointed scowls after he does. 

Truth be told, Wilbur was just hoping to ride out his last year before adulthood in the group home he’d been in for the past few months; nobody paid attention to him there, and the only thing that kept him in was the promise of true freedom once he turned eighteen. But, just his luck, they’d matched him with a family right before his senior year.

_Ten months._

He’d met his foster father once before arriving at the house over lunch with his caseworker. The man had been perfectly nice, just as they all started out, and Wilbur had pushed his pasta around with his fork silently for nearly the entire meal, aside from a few quiet replies to the usual questions. 

_What’s your favorite colour? Do you like sports? Have a favorite food?_

Will found it so hard to sum himself up in those little replies. He knew that was his most cliche thought, but the truth of it made him unable to care. He’d rather his thoughts be cliche truths than original lies, and wouldn’t you know it, that was another one. Sometimes thinking made him tired. 

Absently, the fingers of his free hand tapped against his jean-clad leg, pretending a melody. The song he’d been working on was caught in his head, looping endlessly as he stood in stasis. 

_I’m not a man of substance, and so I’ll pretend--_

The grey-painted door swung open wide, and there to interrupt his trail of fleeting lyrics was the blonde man he’d met before. He looked tired, and Will supposed he could relate. There was something different in the way the man looked at him, though, so alien to any other foster parent he’d had in the past, but the thought evaded him just as his own lyrics had as the man’s face broke into a large smile. 

Wilbur vaguely registered his caseworker shaking the man’s hand, apologizing for being early on the drop-off, and all the formalities that never seemed to change. It all faded to background noise, the only grounding sensations being the red plastic handle of his suitcase and the strap of the tattered old backpack he refused to give up. Caramel eyes studied the blonde man with a discerning fervor, collecting details and searching for answers. He looked the same as when they’d met before, his stubble a bit less tidied maybe, but otherwise unchanged. 

His caseworker clapped a hand onto Wilbur’s shoulder, parting with sentiments that Wilbur knew simply meant ‘ _see you in a few months, when you get tossed out again._ ’   
And then the blonde man was reaching a hand out to him. 

“Welcome, Wilbur. I’m Phil. We’re really excited to have you here.” 

The look on Wilbur’s face must have betrayed him, because Phil didn’t waste a moment in retracting his arm, stepping aside to let Will in at his own pace. 

As he entered, the perfect suburban image began to shift a bit. Sure, the place was clean, but it wasn’t like some of the other homes Will was used to, where he was afraid to touch anything for fear of a smudge. It looked lived-in, like a proper home, and it smelled faintly of warm bread. There was a small blonde head peering down at him from the upper floor as he stood awkwardly next to the front door, Phil closing it behind him. 

“Come on in, make yourself comfortable,” Phil encouraged, probably noticing Wilbur’s white-knuckled grip on his suitcase. He offered a warm smile, and when Will didn’t make an effort to return the gesture, he immediately felt guilty. 

Phil didn’t seem bothered, though, ever-cheerful as he moved the conversation along. 

“Your room is upstairs, to the right of Tommy’s. Do you want to see it, or would you rather eat first?” 

The blonde kid at the top of the stairs was still staring at him, trying to appear inconspicuous as he studied Wilbur with big eyes. Wilbur knew that look-- this was Phil’s biological son, trying to scope out the competition. He wished he could tell him not to worry. He’d be gone soon. 

It suddenly occurred to him that Phil had asked him what he wanted to do, and Wilbur looked back to the man with as plain an expression as he could manage. 

“I’d like to go upstairs, if that’s alright.” 

Phil smiled again, and Wilbur wished he’d stop. 

“Yeah, of course! Come on, I’ll show you the way.” 

_This never gets easier._

Will nodded in reply, stopping to unlace his shoes and place them next to the door before he started up the carpeted stairs after Phil. Reaching the upstairs, the red-shirted kid was nowhere to be seen, and Phil didn’t comment as he led Wilbur past a few doors, all scratched or imperfect in some way. 

That was new-- Wilbur had traversed many perfect white-doored hallways, all closed off to him except the ones he was expressly permitted into. The doors here weren’t white, for starters, and they were far from closed. 

Phil stopped at the furthest right room in the hall, sandwiched between a door decorated with a large red ‘T’ and a cozy-looking open loft area. 

“Here we are,” he announced, and again stepped aside for Will to enter. 

The room was plain, but not unwelcoming. It seemed like it was meant to be a blank canvas, and Wilbur felt embarrassed setting his ratty old suitcase on the rug. Walls of grey-blue lent themselves like a blanket around home-worn wooden furniture, and Wilbur felt a small tug of emotion as he realized this was the color he’d offered in reply to Phil at their lunch. The bed was piled with pillows and comfortable-looking quilts. There was a window, wide with sunlight, a plush chair that looked soft enough to swallow you, and an empty closet beckoning to be filled. He turned in a semicircle, taking it all in, until his eyes fell on a wrapped box sitting atop one of the pillows. 

A glance at Phil, and the older man nodded, gesturing at Wilbur as if it were for him. 

_It is for me._

There was his name, penned in thick, neat letters across the side. Feeling the pressure of his host’s kind eyes, he set his backpack on the end of the bed and picked up the box. It was light, and WIlbur carefully unwrapped the paper to lift the lid. 

Inside awaited a small plush fox. Bright orange, with shining eyes and a perfectly fluffy tail; Will dropped the box to the bedspread and held it in his hands without a second thought. The pretenses of a disinterested appearance fell away as he ran his fingers over the plush fur, soft as anything. His chest swelled with something foreign as he stared at the toy, knowing this had to do with that different-ness he’d glimpsed on Phil’s face when he’d seen Wilbur at the door not ten minutes ago. 

“Do you like it? I wasn’t sure, but something about it just seemed right.” 

Wilbur turned. “Thank you,” he whispered, not trusting himself to speak any louder. Phil seemed to understand though, as he gave a smile and a nod. 

“Well, I’ll let you get settled. Just yell if you need something, okay?” 

With that he was gone, and Wilbur sank down onto the bed with the fox in his arms, pushing his bangs away from his face in an absent gesture. He sat there for what felt like an hour, until a voice from the doorway nearly startled him out the window. 

“Hi.” 

Looking up in a flash, it was the blonde kid from earlier, Phil’s son. 

“Hi,” Wilbur replied, setting the plush down next to him on the bed. 

The kid was fairly tall for seeming much younger than Will, and he had a confidence about him that wasn’t threatening, simply charismatic. 

“You’re Wilbur,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure but was at the same time. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m Tommy.” 

There was a pause, in which Wilbur could nearly see the gears in Tommy’s head turning. 

“You can call me Big Man,” he said, and the way in which he delivered the line was so sure that Wilbur laughed without meaning to. An impish smile spread over Tommy's face. 

“I’ll stick with Tommy, thanks.” 

Another pause, and Wilbur was afraid he’d already made a mistake until the kid plopped down cross-legged in the doorway.

“You can decorate it however you like, you know.” Tommy’s voice was quieter, almost gentle. He noticed Wilbur’s eyes on him and, as if onstage, cracked a grin and straightened his posture. “That’s why my room looks all awesome and shit.” 

Will smiled back, really smiled, and he mentally cursed the kid for being so funny. He couldn’t get attached to this place, but this interaction was dragging his plans in the opposite direction. 

“Do you want to see it?” Tommy asked with the tone of someone who wanted to show him.

Looking around briefly, Will figured he had time to spare, so he left the fox and his khaki coat on the bed and stood with a nod. Tommy jumped to his feet, that signature smile cracking across his young face, so Wilbur followed him into the hall and the room next-door. 

Tommy paraded proudly into the space, with Will hesitantly hovering in the door frame as the younger boy had done moments ago. 

The walls were a nice shade of red, matching the “T” hung on the outside of the door. A large basket of laundry sat full with clothes that he assumed were scooped from the floor fairly recently. Posters of various movies, bands, and videogames plastered the space; Wilbur felt that it matched the kid’s personality pretty well, from what little he knew of him. Disorganized, but not messy-- loud, but not without reason. 

Feeling Tommy’s eyes on him as he scanned the room, Will pushed past his instinct to stay quiet. 

“I like it.” He wasn't really sure what else to say, but it seemed enough for the kid. That impish grin was back, and Wilbur was about to excuse himself from the situation, but Tommy spoke first. 

“Come over here, you can see the best part.” Will found himself being motioned into the room, his sock-clad feet sliding gently on the light wooden floor. Tommy was stood by the window; Wilbur joined him, the space large enough for them to stand side by side. 

“My best friend Tubbo lives there,” Tommy pointed to the house next door. His window had a great view of the house’s backyard, and Wilbur assumed his own window faced the side of that house, but he had yet to check. 

“That’s good,” Wilbur nodded, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“I only met him yesterday but he’s the greatest. We’ll all be best buddies, okay Wilbur?” 

_I don’t want pity friends._

Tommy must have picked up on the slowly-growing awkwardness of the situation, with Wilbur not really offering any conversation in reply, so he just gave a happy smile that was nearly identical to his father’s and sat down in the desk chair next to the window. 

Will took that as his cue and thanked Tommy under his breath before hurrying from the room back into the one Phil had said was his. The fox was still right where he left it, as were all his things, and he shut the door as far as he could without actually closing it. 

_Ten months._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, let's all welcome Wilbur to the family! Next chapter is more bonding :) Let me know what you're excited to see!


	4. Found Family - Wilbur's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for 3k hits! This fic means so much to me and I'm so happy to be able to share it with you. Please feel free to share this with your friends, mutuals, or anyone you think this story would give serotonin to :)
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was nearing a week later when Wilbur found out Tommy was adopted. 

He’d settled into the house a lot more quickly and happily than he’d ever expected to. His walls were still there, of course, his way of keeping everyone at an arm’s length, but with his sweaters folded neatly in the closet bins Wilbur could see the room he’d been given as a little more ‘his’ than anywhere else. 

It was impossible not to notice the photos that lined the halls; Phil was so proud of his family, that was obvious. There were a few of Phil himself, much younger, holding hands and playing with a young boy that couldn’t have been more than ten, his strawberry-blonde hair neatly combed with a maturity unexpected from someone that age; it didn’t take Wilbur long to figure out that Tommy had an older brother, off at university. He wondered if the bedroom he had taken residence in was once the eldest son’s. 

Tommy himself joined the photos eventually, and Will found it so odd that there weren’t any baby pictures of either boy, or another parent. He was so sure that Phil’s sons were biological that the possibility of Tommy or the mysterious other son being adopted never crossed his mind. 

It was odd, to have a favorite family photo of a family that wasn’t yours, but Will did. It was the largest in the hall, and fairly recent, judging by Tommy’s age. Phil had his arms wrapped around both boys, one on each side. Tommy was grinning that trademark grin, red-and-white raglan shirt untucked and blonde curls wild atop his head. The other kid was much older, over twenty, if Will had to guess, and he stood with the grace of someone that knew his worth. He had a stoic but kind face, eyes of an indeterminable hue, and a single gold ring in his left ear-- Wilbur thought he dressed like a dark academia protagonist, aside from the long bubblegum-pink braid of hair trailed over his right shoulder. 

Phil found him staring at it on the first day it rained since he’d moved in. He’d almost appeared next to Wilbur in the hall, a gently steaming mug in his hand, clad in the green robe and slippers of a man content with his life. 

“I hope you’ll be around when Techno comes home,” Phil said, and Wilbur looked at him with an anxious twist in his gut, hoping Phil didn’t think it odd that he was just standing there, staring at photos of his family. 

Phil seemed to take the look as one of questioning, however, and took a sip from his mug. 

“My oldest,” he explained, smiling. “Never could get him to stop reading and go outside. Days like this were his favourite.” 

The rain pattered gently against the roof high above. Wilbur looked back at the photo.

“It took so much longer to get the paperwork through for him than Tommy, and every day I’m thankful I never gave up.” 

A pause, as Phil sipped his coffee, and Wilbur felt the flutters of anxiety in his chest fall away as the puzzle pieces connected. 

_Oh._

_They were like me._

_And then--_

_Phil understands. That’s why he’s different._

“They’re… adopted?” 

Phil chuckled. “People usually have that reaction. All blondes.” 

Wilbur looked to his left only to find Phil looking at him with those impossibly kind eyes. 

“I know it’s tough. You’ve been in the system much longer than either of my boys were. But I want you to feel safe here.” And he’d patted Will’s shoulder with a sort of weight that only comes from the truth. 

Wilbur decided he liked Phil after that. 

He’d met that Tubbo kid too. The young brunette and Tommy were near inseparable. One would think they’d been friends for years with the way they followed each other like shadows, running between yards and traipsing loudly around the house. It was funny, though-- Tubbo was only ever around during the daytime, and Will had learned from glances out his window that Tommy never entered the other kid’s house. 

Tubbo himself was incredibly sweet; in the few moments Will had spoken to him, he seemed a perfectly bright young lad, the perfect amount of rational calm to temper Tommy’s wild and impulsive nature, though that didn’t stop the pair from creating a ruckus wherever they went. 

Sunday marked exactly a week of Wilbur’s move-in, and the following day both boys were due to start school; Wilbur, a senior, and Tommy, a freshman. 

He’d finally started to feel comfortable enough to explore the place a bit, and his mission of the day was to find somewhere to write his music. His room was perfectly peaceful, but Will was fairly sure that Tommy could hear him right through the walls if he were to start singing. 

The bathroom had great acoustics, but the large wall mirror was too all-encompassing for his taste. On his first night, Wilbur had sat on the edge of the tub, sleep evading him and nothing better to do than stare at himself and criticize. A perfect reflection of his visage, brown curls tucked under a grey beanie and round glasses framing almond-coloured eyes-- just a scared boy hiding in a baggy sweater, too afraid to take control of his own life.

It had been good for lyrics, if nothing else. 

He loved the loft; with its abundance of blankets and places to sit, it was a great place for reading, and he saw the twinkle in Phil’s eye when the man had come looking for him and found him nestled in a bean-bag chair near the window with a book from the shelves spanning the walls. The space was a treat for his creative brain, the perfect amount of coziness to fall into scribbled words and imagined chord progressions; not so perfect was the way it sat exposed to the rest of the house, naught but a wooden railing separating it from the open space of both the upstairs hall and the first floor beyond. 

Will searched on-- there was no basement, and he’d exhausted every room on the first floor, so he’d moved on to the second. He knew the right side of the hall well at this point-- the bathroom, then Tommy’s room, the one serving as his own, and ending in the loft-- but the left side was a mystery. 

The first room he came to was dark, no sunlight spilling out from the slightly opened door. He touched the door with gentle hands and it creaked as it swung further open. A bed dominated the room, its outline recognizable in the darkness. He peeked in, the natural light from the hall growing enough to reveal a cluttered mess of books, papers, string lights, and a few posters.

_Oh, this must be Techno’s room._

“Hey, Wilbur,” Phil said suddenly from behind him. 

Guilt overwhelmed him as he spun around, locking eyes with his guardian. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he blurted, not really sure why. Phil regarded him with confusion. 

“For what? Is something wrong?” 

“I was just looking for somewhere to practice, I didn’t mean to intrude--” 

Phil waved a hand dismissively, smiling. “You’re welcome anywhere. Now, what did you want to practice? I might be able to help, if you like.” 

The guilt dissipated with Phil’s assurance, and Wilbur realized he had never known an adult to treat him with such automatic respect. 

“I’m… I write music. I wanted to find somewhere to work on things where I wouldn’t bother you or Tommy with the noise,” he explained, unable to meet Phil’s eyes again. Sure, he was proud of his music, but it wasn’t something he shared. It felt like the only thing that was truly his in the world. Although, that wasn’t exactly true anymore. 

“Oh, that sounds brilliant! Follow me,” Phil grinned-- it seemed he always had a smile on his face-- and he continued off down the left-side hall, leaving Wilbur to follow. The door two past Techno’s bedroom was closed before they reached it, and Phil wasted no time in entering to sweep open the curtains and fill the space with light. 

Will hovered in the doorway of a beautiful office space, polished wood flooring and a large desk near the window. More bookshelves filled the empty spaces along the walls. A very fine layer of dust permeated the space, as if untouched for months. What caught Wilbur’s eye, though, was the acoustic guitar mounted on the wall opposite the large bay window. 

“Come on in,” Phil motioned. Wilbur stepped into the space, impressed by both the sophistication of the room and the fact that it’d gone unused for so long. 

“Sorry about the dust, I don’t come in here much. Techno used it the most out of any of us, but since he’s at university, well, it’s just empty.” 

It was quite empty; aside from the mounted guitar, the shelves, and the desk, the room was bare. 

“I’ve been planning to turn it into a games room for quite a while, but, you know.” Phil gestured, and Wilbur took his meaning as _‘life gets in the way.’_

“Did you play?” Will inquired, eyes locked on the guitar. 

Phil followed his eyes up. He let out a chuckle. “No, not well. It was a gift from some relative who thought loving music meant I could.” He strode over, reaching up to grab the guitar from its place on the wall. A puff of dust came off the thing as Phil brought it down, giving a fond smile to Wilbur as he offered it to the teen. 

The brunette’s hands trembled slightly as he reached out, gently grasping the neck of the guitar and pulling it close. 

It had been too long since he’d gotten his hands on a proper instrument. The strings were all out of tune, he could just tell by looking at them, and dust clung to the frets, but he couldn’t care less about the state of it. It was a guitar, and it was in his hands.

Brown eyes met blue as Wilbur tore his eyes away, searching Phil’s face for something akin to permission. 

“If you want it, it's yours.” 

He did want it. 

Tears sprung to his eyes before he could stop them, years of practice in hiding his emotions useless against the buzzing of his mind, hesitant to trust, yearning for the safety of a promise, and something as monumental as this--

He nods, blinking profusely, willing the wetness away, and oh-so-gently sets the beautiful instrument on the desk to his left.

Wilbur knew his words wouldn't come out right, so he doesn’t even try. Instead, he took a step forward into Phil’s waiting arms. He was warm, and he smelled like vanilla.

Wilbur never wanted to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all so much for your support. I would love to chat with y'all on twitter or in the comments!! <3


	5. An Unlikely Friend - Tubbo's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! Lots of Schlatt content in the next few chapters, buckle up! 
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Enjoy!

He really wasn’t that bad, once you got to know him. 

Not that Tubbo had gotten to know him, no; Schlatt was as distant as the day they’d met, but his assistant Connor had been spending a fair amount of time in the house. Tubbo liked Connor. He knew more about Schlatt than anyone else seemed to.

The day Schlatt had scolded him on the patio, Tubbo had shed a few tears in the garden after he’d left, embarrassed at having already disappointed his new guardian. He’d found a comfortable seat beneath the massive tree in the yard, watching the early autumn wind disrupt petal and leaf alike; it was there that Connor had found him, an hour or so later, a fast-food takeout bag in hand. He’d been surprised to see someone else step out into the yard before he recalled Schlatt’s mention of a Connor meant to bring him breakfast; he couldn’t have been older than thirty, dressed in a suit far less expensive than Schlatt’s. 

They’d had an awkward sort of breakfast, seated across from each other at the impressive marble countertop. Tubbo had politely consumed a pair of egg-muffin sandwiches by the time Connor actually said something to him. 

“So… do you like him?” 

The younger brunette had stiffened a bit on his cushioned stool. Was this a test? He spared a glance at Connor, who hadn’t actually eaten anything; the bag sat on the counter, still with a wealth of different meals to offer. He could see the flashes of insecurity in Connor’s grey-blue eyes, the lines of worry starting to barely crease his forehead, the way his hair was slicked back in a familiar way-- and he understood. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Tubbo nodded. He watched as the weight of the question fell from Connor’s shoulders, the tension in his posture dissipating as if Tubbo had just told him he’d never have to work again. 

Connor nodded in return, sliding his phone from his pocket and sending a text so fast Tubbo could barely register the action before it was gone again. 

“Are you Mr. Schlatt’s work partner?” 

At that, Connor chuckled, light and amused. 

“No, I’m his assistant. He didn’t mention me?” 

Tubbo glanced at the brightly-coloured food wrapper on the counter in front of him. “No, no, he did,” he offered, not wanting the other to feel forgotten about, “Just not your job.” 

“Well,” Connor half-smiled. “I’ve been assigned to get you anything you need. And, well, I didn’t know what you liked, so…” He gestured towards the bag of food. 

“Thanks.” 

“Not a problem.” 

The two faded back into silence, this one more comfortable. Connor stood to put away the leftovers, his body half-concealed by the fridge door from where Tubbo was seated. 

“Do you like him?” 

He couldn’t see Connor’s face, but he was sure he’d heard the question, as a thunk and a few curses drifted out from the fridge. A moment later, Connor’s upper half re-appeared, looking at Tubbo with contentment. 

“Actually, yeah. As much of a hard-ass as he is, there’s a lot to admire.” 

Tubbo crinkled the wrappers of his sandwiches together and swept the crumbs into his hand, hopping down from the stool to throw away his trash. 

“He seems really…” He paused, searching for the words. 

“Stubborn?” 

“Resolute,” Tubbo countered. 

“He likes things his way.” 

They’d both re-taken their seats at the counter without meaning to, each intrigued at the other’s perception of Schlatt. 

“This is all new to him,” Connor stated, regarding Tubbo with gently worried brows. “He hates making mistakes, but he will. And when he does… give him another chance.” 

Gently tapping his foot against the metal bars of the stool, Tubbo considered this with understanding. He was about to speak again when a shrill ringing filled the space. Connor fumbled for his phone, withdrawing it in a flash. Tubbo could hear snippets of Schlatt’s harsh voice on the line, and Connor listened with rapt attention before replying with a practiced “right away sir,” as the dial tone beeped. 

He sighed, not really meaning it, and Tubbo glanced at the fridge clock, proudly displaying 9:14 AM. 

“I’ve gotta go,” Connor said, standing to brush off his suit. 

“Oh, okay. See you around. Thank you for breakfast.” 

Connor nodded, swiftly making his way to the front door. 

Tubbo heard it echo through the house as it closed, the emptiness larger than he’d realized. 

He made it all the way to the wilting garden before he realized it was a Saturday. 

That very same day, Tubbo had met Tommy. The two took to each other like fish to the sea, and the days following were a lot less empty. 

He found out shortly that Schlatt worked seven days a week, eight hours a day. He was usually gone before Tubbo awoke, with not even a note to keep the boy company. Tubbo spent the days at Tommy’s house, only returning when Connor would bring over food for the two to chat over. Phil welcomed Tubbo with open arms, delighted to see the boy so often at their home. He seemed to fret quite a bit over Tubbo’s health, always asking when he’d last eaten; Tubbo assumed from the way Tommy spoke about Schlatt that Phil didn’t trust the man as any form of caretaker. Schlatt himself hadn’t spoken directly about Phil or his family, but Tubbo caught the glares towards their neighbors house and the distaste written across Schlatt’s face when he casually mentioned ‘the boy next door.’

He thought it best to not let Schlatt know where he spent his time, assuming his guardian wouldn’t approve, and understandably reluctant to lose his new best friend. 

Schlatt would get home around six, when dusk gently pulled at the edges of the sky. He’d bring food, of course, and they’d sit at opposite ends of the excessively long dining table as they ate in near-silence. 

On the one-week anniversary of Tubbo’s moving in, he woke to a firm knock on his bedroom door. It was quite a nice room, fancier than most ordinary hotel rooms-- polished wooden furniture, an en-suite bathroom, a queen-sized mattress piled high with down comforters and goose-feather pillows-- but Tubbo couldn’t help but to feel alone at the sheer size of it, much like the rest of the house. 

The knock roused him from sleep just enough to be coherent, and he glanced at his bedside clock to see the numbers shining 7:00 AM. 

“Come in?” 

The door swung open. Schlatt stood in the doorway, his suit pressed to perfection and a bright red tie at his throat. He was holding something in one hand that Tubbo couldn’t quite make out. 

“Here, get dressed.” 

Whatever Schlatt was holding was laid upon the foot of his bed, and the door closed again without another word. 

Tubbo gently moved the covers off, standing and moving to the end of the massive bed. He wasn’t expecting to see a suit about his size, still wrapped as new; the accompanying tie was a pleasant shade of olive green, and Tubbo’s sleep-hazed brain decided to simply do as he was asked. 

A short morning-routine later, Tubbo emerged from the bathroom, teeth brushed and body suit-clad. His tie hung undone around his neck, having been unable to figure it out on his own. No-one had ever given him a suit before, and he wasn’t quite sure which way the tie was supposed to go. 

Schlatt stood in the hall, typing quickly on his phone. He cut an imposing figure even when he wasn’t trying. He spoke without turning his eyes from the screen.

“There you are. Does the suit fit right? I was assured it would, and I don’t like being lied to.” 

Tubbo shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Uhm, yeah, I think so.” 

The tapping of keys stopped as Schlatt looked up, fixing a discerning gaze on his young charge. Tubbo felt the weight of the man’s eyes as the judgement of a higher power, picking apart his insecurities and imperfections like a carnivorous bird. 

Schlatt’s face remained utterly emotionless in the seconds he devoted to appraising Tubbo’s attire, giving the smallest nod as he turned back to his phone. 

“Do your tie,” Schlatt instructed, finishing up a message and sliding his phone into his pocket. He strode past in a breeze of musky cologne, descending the stairs with Tubbo quick to follow. The stiff new shoes made keeping up with Schlatt more of a challenge than he’d expected, almost stumbling on his way down; if Schlatt noticed, he didn’t turn. 

They reached the garage entrance through the kitchen, Tubbo’s tie still hanging loose around his neck. Schlatt glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door. 

“I thought I told you to tie that.” 

“Ah, sorry, Mr. Schlatt, I… don’t know how.” Tubbo stared down at the shiny black leather on his feet. A matching pair of shoes, much larger, clicked gently against the tile as they approached. 

“Makes sense,” Schlatt said. His voice was calm, less demanding than moments ago. “I should’ve expected they wouldn’t teach you anything useful.” 

Tubbo lifted his chin, meeting Schlatt’s eyes for just a moment before the man reached up, undoing his own scarlet tie. 

“Watch me.” 

He demonstrated slowly, making sure Tubbo could follow each step. The boy copied his movements like a mirror, olive fabric twisting and folding just as directed. Something Tubbo had never seen before darted across Schlatt’s face as Tubbo completed the knot; his eyes warmed, his jaw loosened, and what looked like the gentle creases of a smile tugged at his lips. Tubbo felt himself smile in response, and Schlatt gave him one last nod before the two entered the garage, one after the other. 

Schlatt took him to work. 

They made a stop at the drive-through of the local coffee shop, with Schlatt ordering a massive black coffee for himself and a raspberry danish for Tubbo. An hour’s drive later, they arrived at the towering office building labeled ‘Schlatt & Co.’ 

Schlatt slipped his sleek car into the center parking space emblazoned with his own name, grabbing a briefcase from the backseat and locking the car after Tubbo had gotten out. Tubbo himself brushed off his suit as well as he could, making sure any wayward crumbs from his breakfast couldn’t be seen. 

Entering the glass-walled lobby, Tubbo was immediately struck by both the grandeur of the place and Schlatt’s inherent ability to make anyone change their course of direction. A path cleared for them to the elevators. People they passed would mutter morning greetings, nobody commenting on Tubbo’s presence at all, simply offering a reverent, “Good morning, Mr. Schlatt.” 

As they rode the impressively modern elevator up to what Tubbo presumed would be the top floor, he felt a pang of guilt for not being able to tell Tommy he was busy today. He hoped the boy didn’t think he was angry with him by not coming over. Schlatt must have noticed the look on Tubbo’s face, interpreting it as nerves, because he clapped a hand onto Tubbo’s shoulder and pulled him a bit closer. 

“Don’t worry, kid. I own this joint. If anybody looks at you sideways, you let me know, and they’ll be gone faster than you can blink.” 

He obviously meant for the words to be a comfort, but they made Tubbo feel even worse. He didn’t want anyone to lose their jobs, especially not because of him. 

The elevator dinged and opened onto an expanse of red-carpeted hall, a massive glass door directly ahead denoted with a shimmering gold plaque. Tubbo’s guilt turned to anxiety as he read. 

_Office of J. Schlatt  
C.E.O. of Schlatt & Co._

Schlatt strode through the doors like he owned the place-- which, apparently, he did-- with Tubbo close on his heels. A secretary’s desk confronted them immediately upon entering, at which a white-haired young man with a pink tie was seated, a phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up and waved to Schlatt, who offered a small salute in reply as he moved past. Tubbo kept his eyes low, following the expensive-looking red carpet that seemed to match the one in the house almost perfectly. It led directly to another set of double-doors, just as towering as before but made of a heavy wood.

It was large, as one would expect of a CEO. A window spanned the opposite wall to the door, illuminating the space with early-morning sun, and small knick-knacks lay nicely organized on shelves and surfaces around the room. Nearly everything was done in dark wood, contrasting with the modern, glass-and-metal design of the rest of the building. A desk dominated the space, piled high with neat stacks of paper and files; the golden nameplate atop the surface implied the occupant would be ‘J. Schlatt’, but the man currently seated at the desk certainly was not.

His legs were propped up on the desktop, one crossed over the other, his phone in hand and a beanie on his head. Clad in a sharp suit and navy-blue tie, one might mistake him for a professional at a glance, but the way Schlatt’s face twisted in reaction to seeing the other man in his chair told Tubbo everything to the contrary. Actually, the more Tubbo looked at him, he seemed young, closer to Tubbo’s age than Schlatt’s. If he had to guess, he wouldn’t place him any older than Wilbur. 

They’d only been standing there for a few seconds before the younger man looked up from his phone, letting out a yelp of surprise and falling backwards with a crash. Both he and the chair tumbled over; Schlatt rubbed a hand across his own face in exasperation as the beanie guy stood up, brushing himself off. 

“Ah, uhhh-- Schlatt! You’re early!” 

Schlatt said nothing, his eyes fixed on the younger man with a grave intensity. Tubbo flicked his gaze between the two, the tension in the room rising to a boil. 

The stranger leaned down and hauled the chair up to its proper position, his beanie sliding from his head to the floor as he did so. Wild black hair stuck up at every angle; he reached up, sheepishly smoothing it down. 

Tubbo looked back to Schlatt, who met his eyes. A dangerous calm was written across his face, and the venom of it seeped into his voice when he spoke. 

“Tubbo, can you head outside for a moment? Ask my secretary to buzz Connor, he’ll show you around.” 

It was an order thinly veiled as a suggestion. Tubbo shot another glance towards the black-haired man, who waved at him with a terrified smile, before meeting Schlatt’s eyes again and nodding. 

“Good, good.” Schlatt patted his back gently and turned him towards the door, opening it to allow him exit. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Tubbo heard Schlatt’s voice bleed out from the office.

“Quackity, what the actual fuck do you think you’re doing in here?” 

The door muffled their voices as he walked through the antechamber, shyly wandering up to the edge of the secretary’s desk. He was off the phone now, and seemingly unaware of the conversation taking place in the office. As Tubbo approached, a kind smile spread across his face.

“Hey there! You’re Schlatt’s foster kid, right?” 

Tubbo nodded. He felt like he’d been doing a lot of wordless nodding since he entered the office building. 

“Mr. Schlatt asked me if you could buzz Connor, please?” 

“Of course, Mr…?” 

“Uh, Tubbo.” 

“Right!” He smiled again, the persistent happiness reminding Tubbo a bit of Phil. He wished he were with Tommy right now; as interesting as it was to see Schlatt’s office, he felt out of place, and the new shoes were starting to pinch his toes. 

Schlatt and Quackity’s argument rose to a shouting match in the background as the secretary pressed a button on his desk. 

“Connor for Mr. Tubbo,” he announced, winking at the younger boy. Tubbo grinned in reply. 

It only took a few moments for Connor to come strolling through the main doors, a look of contentment plastered across his face. 

“Hey, bud. What’s up? Everything okay?” 

The yelling from the office rose to extremely audible levels, and Connor made a face. “Oh.” 

A pause. 

“You want ice cream?” 

White-hair guy shot Connor a look. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning.” 

Connor glanced down at his watch. “It’s eight-fifty, and who cares?” 

The secretary rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned back to his computer screen, clicking away at the keyboard. 

Tubbo liked Connor, that was for sure. He liked Schlatt, too; he just wished Schlatt liked him. After all, it would be cool to have a CEO for a dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great week guys, and thank you most sincerely for all the love on this fic so far. Also, if anyone got who Schlatt's secretary is, you're elite and ILY.


	6. Trouble in Paradise - Schlatt's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! 
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Also, lots of swearing in this one. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Fucking interns. Schlatt couldn’t believe it.

He’d really tried to make an effort with Tubbo; bought him a new suit, helped him with his tie, even brought him to work for the day. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish, but he knew for a fact whatever it was died by Alex’s hand the moment he’d brought the kid into his office. 

Alex-- Quackity to his friends, god knows why-- had the audacity to sit in _his_ chair, at _his_ desk, in _his_ office.

Tubbo had seen Schlatt’s authority over his company undermined by a ballsy teenager in a stupid hat. 

Sure, he cared about Quackity; he was his best intern, after all, with a loyalty matched only by Connor, but the younger man had a terrible habit of thinking he was endearing. So, Schlatt had sent Tubbo outside in an effort to spare him from the oncoming eruption. 

After his suit-clad charge left the office, the heavy wooden door settled back to closed with a thunk of finality. Schlatt leveled his gaze on his intern’s face.

“Quackity, what the actual fuck do you think you’re doing in here?” 

His voice was dangerously calm, and he could see the younger man’s dark eyes widen like a deer in the headlights. 

“Uhhh… I was just keeping your chair warm.” 

A silence settled over the pair. Schlatt was still standing near the door, facing opposite Quackity, who was positioned behind his desk near the recently-righted chair. He hadn’t noticed he was still holding his briefcase until he took a step forwards, the leather case bumping against his leg; he set it on the floor, unconcerned, and took another step.

“Oh really?”

The distance was slowly closing, and he felt that dark part of himself revel in the growing fear that made itself known in Quackity’s face. 

“Yeah, boss, let me just uh… go grab you those files-” 

Schlatt, having nearly reached his desk, chuckled darkly. 

“You’re afraid of me? After all this time? Come on, Alex, I expected more.”

He watched his words puncture like tiny knives, watched his intern’s trembling lip still in defiance. 

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Schlatt tilted his head, mouth curving in mock amusement. The only thing separating the two was the desk now, Quackity standing behind it with much more confidence than he should have possessed at the time, with Schlatt’s imposing frame towering over him from a few feet away. 

“Not afraid of me…” Schlatt started. His brows drew together slowly, waiting. 

“Sir.” Alex spat the word like it poisoned him to say.

The businessman took a step to the left, eye contact never faltering. 

“Good job,” he felt his own words, just as toxic, slip from his tongue. A passing thought of guilt entered his mind, only to be shoved aside by the primal urges of power.

“See, that’s where we’re different, you and I. _You_ are a name I picked from a pile of papers on my desk, and _I_ am the backbone of this entire corporation. You have no power. You don’t get to come in here and play pretend.” 

He’d rounded the desk now, facing down Quackity within arm’s reach. The intern took a step back, then two, bumping into the chair but continuing backwards as Schlatt advanced. He felt his voice raising steadily as he spoke. 

“You don’t get to sit there and pretend you have the power, _my_ power. I earned everything I have, only to walk into my office-- with my _son_ no less-- and find some fucking intern playing dress-up!” 

Their steps took Quackity around the other side, his back to the office doors, while Schlatt reclaimed his territory behind the desk. 

“I am the _god_ of this corporation, Alex, and you’re a fucking idiot if you think I’m going to let this slide!” 

“You won’t fire me,” Quackity shot back, and Schlatt stopped in his tracks. “You need me.” 

There was silence. A look of victory darted across Quackity’s eyes-- and then Schlatt started to laugh. 

“Need you? You think I fucking _need you_?” He could feel the anger bubbling in his gut, up into his throat, each word burning like a curse as the shouts rose to a crescendo.  
“I don’t need _anyone_ , especially not you! I could replace you in a fucking second!” 

Alex’s dark eyes flickered, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. Schlatt was surprised when his intern shouted back, voice wavering as if he was going to cry. 

“No. You said so yourself, you picked me for a fucking reason, Schlatt. I fucked up this morning, I didn’t know you were bringing your son, and I’m sorry I sat in your fucking chair, okay? Working here is all I goddamn have, you know that, and as bad of a man as you make people think you are, you won’t fucking fire me!” 

There, in that moment, Schlatt felt himself stop-- and his mind filled with Tubbo. 

_Quackity called him my son._

_I called him my son._

_Why the fuck did I do that?_

The anger fell away all at once, and he regarded Quackity with new eyes; saw the tremble in his hands, the hurt in his face.

“No, I won’t,” Schlatt finally said, dropping into his chair. “You’re right.”

Quackity regarded him from across the desk as the older man settled his head in his hands. 

“My neighbor, Phil,” he started, his voice slightly muffled. “He’s got it all. So do I obviously, I mean, look around. But he’s got… kids, he’s got a family. He's not.. alone.” 

Quackity pulled his beanie back onto his head, walking over to retrieve Schlatt’s briefcase from its place on the floor and gently setting it on the desk. 

“What am I doing, Q?” 

Schlatt looked up, meeting Quackity’s eyes. He hated himself for the desperation he knew was present there, all his confusion and worry plain on display. The younger man shook his head, walking back around the desk to place a comforting hand on Schlatt’s shoulder.

“Your best, Schlatt. You’re doing your best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I just wanted to note that they don't have the same relationship as in the DSMP canon because Schlatt is 35 and Quackity is 18 in this AU-- so no romance/engagement or anything of the sort, but they are sort-of friends. 
> 
> Have a great week guys, next chapter we return to the Sleepy Bois!


	7. The New Kid - Wilbur's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! Sorry for the later upload, the DreamSMP lore from today walked up and punched me in the face. 
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was Monday morning, and Phil made them all breakfast; crispy bacon, sunny side-up eggs, and a side of only slightly burnt toast. 

“Tommy, remember to show Will around as best you can today, alright?” Phil took a sip of his coffee, kind eyes flipping between the two boys seated across from him at the worn wooden table. Tommy agreed, starting to babble on about Tubbo’s dad not letting him ride the school bus, but the conversation faded away from Wilbur as he pushed his egg around the plate with his fork.

_I don’t want to be the new kid again._

After breakfast, the boys grabbed their backpacks. Phil walked them to the door, a proud smile glinting in his eyes. After chastising Tommy for his lack of coat, he pulled the younger boy into a hug, kissing him on the top of the head as Tommy pretended to squirm away.

Wilbur was surprised when Phil turned to him next, opening his arms wide and allowing Will to sink into his warm embrace. Sudden tears pricked at the teen’s eyes as he felt Phil’s lips gently press onto his mess of brown curls, but he fought them back, determined not to cry. Phil let go after a moment, and the two brothers set out for the bus stop.

“Have a great day, boys!” Phil called out as they headed down the drive. Wilbur waved in return. 

It was a haze for him after that, anxieties swarming every thought. He crossed the street with Tommy, crisp fallen leaves decorating the sidewalks and gutters. Wilbur was thankful for the warm embrace of his favorite sweater as the early autumn wind bit at their heels, but the comfort was short-lived as a familiar bright yellow vehicle approached from down the street. 

The bus ride was uneventful. Wilbur simply slid into an empty seat near the front and prayed no one would sit with him. He vaguely registered Tommy making a beeline for the back of the bus as they boarded, and his raucous laughter echoing through the vehicle as they drove. 

_How does he have so many friends?_

Schools were always the same, no matter where he went. As the bus pulled up alongside the building, Wilbur didn’t even bother to recognize the details of it; concrete, brick, tile flooring or cold stone. It never mattered. He was just ‘that new kid’ for nine months, if he even made it that long in one place. 

He waited for Tommy after disembarking, standing awkwardly as kids funneled out. Tommy was one of the last, his mess of blonde hair distinguishing him from the others; he greeted Wilbur with a distracted, “alright, Will?”, but the older boy recognized the slight turn of his head, the darting motions of his eyes-- Tommy was looking for Tubbo amongst the crowd of students headed into the building. 

“Alright,” Wilbur lied, shifting his backpack on his shoulder as the two joined the throng of bodies moving in slow tandem towards the front doors. 

He stopped briefly in the office to check in and confirm his schedule; a sweet-looking student worker with pale pink hair smiled kindly at him as he waited for it to print. 

_She probably just feels bad for me._

Wilbur took the papers from her without making eye contact. Exiting, he found Tommy and Tubbo laughing together on the bench just outside the office. Tubbo smiled widely at his approach, both boys standing and grabbing their bags. 

“Morning, Wilbur! How’s the senior life treating you so far?” 

“Aw, Tubbo, he’s not that old,” Tommy quipped. The two exchanged a look and dissolved into giggles again as the trio made their way down the hall. 

A blur of faces passed them by as they traversed the school, indistinguishable conversations and laughter echoing through the tiled halls. Despite Tubbo being a new student as well, he seemed to already have the layout of the place memorized, leading Wilbur and Tommy through the maze of classrooms and common spaces like a pro. They parted ways at Wilbur’s first hour classroom, the younger boys wishing him well as they wandered off, leaving Will hovering outside the door. 

He took a deep breath. 

_It’s only highschool. You’ve been through this. You’ve been through worse._

Entering the room, he was greeted with a minimal selection of desks to choose from. It seemed most people had already arrived, despite there being nearly ten minutes to the bell. No teacher was present yet, so Wilbur took it upon himself to find a seat, realizing he probably looked quite stupid standing in the doorway even though no-one was looking at him. 

There was a desk in the front row, near-center, flanked by a tall boy with dyed-green hair. He was fiddling with some little mechanical device as a curly-haired girl in a flashy red coat watched from beside him, conversing happily. Another seat towards the middle of the rows was to the left of a gothic-looking kid with who was reading a book; Wilbur watched absently as a boy in a baby-blue t-shirt snuck up behind the goth boy, placing his hands over his friend’s eyes teasingly. 

His final option was nestled in the back corner near the window. All the seats surrounding it were filled with chatting students, but it seemed the place people would pay him the least amount of attention. Wilbur slipped through the rows, sliding into the desk and placing his backpack on the ground. 

“Cool sweater,” came a low, even voice from his right. He glanced up sharply, locking eyes with the fluffy brown-haired kid seated next to him. Well, ‘locking eyes’ wasn’t really a fair descriptor, as the other teen sported a pair of thick black sunglasses. He was clad in a jean jacket decorated with patches of various sizes, colorful thread and little embroidered designs filling up seams and empty space. Wilbur was immediately struck by how nonchalant he seemed, just tossing out compliments and grins whenever it suited him. 

“Thanks,” he replied, offering a weak smile and pulling out a notebook from his bag. The other kid tilted his head slightly, still studying Will with his darkly shaded eyes. 

“Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” 

Wilbur hated that question, but he knew the deep-voiced kid meant well, so he forced another smile and answered. “Yeah, I’m new.” 

“Well, I’m sure I’m not the first, but welcome. Glad to see someone else with a fashion sense around here. I’m Eret.” 

Looking away from his notebook, Wilbur caught a playful glint of Eret’s eye beneath his sunglasses, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He liked the way Eret’s voice formed around words, making every syllable sound like auditory butterscotch.

“I’m Wilbur,” he nodded, and Eret’s grin spread further across his face. 

“Wilbur! Wonderful. Do you have a lunch table yet, Wilbur?” Eret lifted a ring-adorned hand to his face, taking off the glasses in a single swift motion; his eyes were such a pale shade of blue that they almost didn’t have a colour at all. Wilbur shook his head no, tearing his gaze away from Eret’s in fear that he was being rude. Instead, he opened his notebook to the first page, finding a bright orange sticky note with, _‘Have a great day Wilbur!’_ scrawled across it in Phil’s neat handwriting. A genuine smile crossed his face as he read. 

“I’d be honoured if you’d join us today,” Eret mentioned from his right. Will turned his attention back to the other teen, who had cleaned off his sunglass lenses and placed them back onto his face. 

“Uh, sure, if that’s alright,” Will shrugged. His brain was racing a mile a minute, fumbling with the implications of ‘us’ in Eret’s invitation. 

_He doesn’t really want to be friends. He just feels bad for me like everyone else._

Eret seemed delighted by his reply, and was about to say something else when a well-dressed older woman breezed into the classroom, setting down a satchel on the desk at the front of the classroom. Everyone settled into their seats as she began her introduction, and Eret gave Wilbur a nod, mouthing, 'see you then.’

After class, Eret showed him the way to his next one, vanishing into the crowd with a two-fingered salute. The rest of his pre-lunch hours passed without interaction, aside from the one teacher who made him stand up and introduce himself to the rest of the class. Wilbur was nearly sick from the anxiety of thirty pairs of eyes studying his every movement, and simply mumbled out his name before stumbling back to his seat. 

As Will made his way to the lunchroom, roaming the halls near the gymnasium and sports wing, one of the many glass trophy cases caught his eye. Each activity offered by the school had its own case, but the largest by far held the fencing awards. It spanned nearly half a wall, inlaid with red velvet and dark wood. There were framed photos alongside the numerous statues and medals that decorated the shelves; Wilbur stepped off to the side of the hall, examining the case and its contents more closely. 

Engraved in gold on the base of nearly every award was the name _‘Technoblade Watson.’_

Then he saw it-- the bubblegum-pink hair in every photograph, the elegant insignia of the team’s banner that he recalled from his brief glimpse into a darkened bedroom, the portrait shots of the same face he’d seen countless times on the walls of Phil’s home. 

_Holy shit, Techno was a fencing star._

To the right of the trophy case was a corkboard advertising sports team events in the upcoming weeks. For reasons unknown to even himself-- Wilbur had never been interested in sports before-- he tore himself away from the gleaming trophies, wandering towards the corkboard and a specific blue flyer advertising fencing tryouts. People shuffled past him towards the lunchroom, joking and laughing as he read the flyer. 

“Thinking about trying out?” 

Wilbur turned quickly to face the voice behind him, immediately on guard. 

Three boys of varying heights stood facing him in sort of a triangular formation. To the right, a brown-haired boy in a light blue tee, large round glasses almost too big for his slim face. Left, a burly kid with a flame symbol on his shirt, a chain necklace, and black hair pulled back by a white bandana. The tallest of them, positioned in the center, was a blonde clad in a bright green hoodie. A slight dusting of freckles characterized his face, emerald eyes flashing almost dangerously; Wilbur got the impression of a snake waiting to strike, and it made him wary. 

“You’re new here,” the middle boy spoke again, taking a casual step forward. “Wilbur, right?” 

Will frowned, furrowing his brows together. He couldn’t recall seeing any of these three in his other classes. 

“How do you know that?”

The skinny brunette laughed as if he’d said something funny, and the blonde joined him with a chuckle before speaking. “I know pretty much everything that goes on here. Especially if it has to do with a Watson kid.”

Confused, Wilbur didn’t even pause to dispute the statement, spitting back, “So what if I am? Who even are you?” 

A low whistle came from the left as the bandana kid raised his eyebrows, and the main boy’s viridescent eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. 

“You can call me Dream,” came the reply, just a touch away from venomous. “This is George,” he gestured to the brunette, “and that’s Sapnap.” The bandana kid, Sapnap, gave a nod in Wilbur’s direction.

“We’re the fencing captains. Have been since your brother graduated.” 

George spoke up next. “And it’s senior year, so we’re going out with honors. That case is going to be _filled_ with our names.” 

Will vaguely recalled the other inscriptions on the few trophies that Techno didn’t own; George, Nick, and Clay-- the pieces fit into place as he remembered one of the photos, depicting Techno sparring with a young blonde. 

_Dream._

The halls were nearly empty at this point, the last trickle of students heading to lunch passing them without a second thought. An odd sense of boldness filled Wilbur as he faced down the trio, determined to protect the legacy of a now-university student he’d never met. 

“Oh, so you guys are just mad that my brother kicked your arses while he was going here, and you could never do better than him.” 

_He’s not your brother._

There was stunned silence as Dream opened his mouth, then closed it again. Sapnap’s eyes were wide, and George was staring at Dream as if he’d been shot. 

“Come to tryouts, Wilbur,” Dream spat at last. “See if you can even make the team. I bet Techno will be proud of you then, huh?” 

With that, he turned, stalking off towards the lunchroom with the other two trailing behind. 

As Wilbur watched them go, the bell rang suddenly, shaking him from his stupor of false boldness. He turned quickly, adjusting his backpack as he wandered down the hall to the lunchroom. 

_I guess I’m trying out for fencing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was pretty unsure about this chapter because it feels so different from the rest of the story so far, but Wilbur deserves development as a character outside of Phil's house, so I'm including the subplot as originally planned. Don't worry, it all ties together! I hope you guys liked this one, there's a bit more high school stuff on the way. 
> 
> Have a great week, y'all. Take care of yourselves!


	8. The Friends We Made Along The Way - Wilbur's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! 
> 
> The second part to Wilbur's school adventures is here, and with it, plot! As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Upon entering the sprawling lunchroom, Wilbur was bombarded with a cacophony of voices. People were moving about the room in assorted groups, hopping tables and sliding into seats with various trays of food. He spotted Tommy’s blonde head at a table near the back, flanked by Tubbo and an extremely tall boy with split-dyed black-and-white hair. They were laughing loudly at something Tommy was saying, a wide grin spread across the youngest boy’s face. 

Slightly dazed at the amount of people milling about, Wilbur slipped into the hot lunch line, scanning the tables for Eret. His gaze darted over the center table where Dream and his friends sat, noting the presence of two he hadn’t seen before-- a brunette in a very colourful sweater, and a kid in a beanie and a blue sports jacket. 

A few minutes later, tray of pizza in hand, Wilbur spotted Eret’s unmistakable poof of hair across the room near the left-side corner. He made his way over, dodging passersby. Eret spotted him as he approached. 

“Wilbur! So glad you could join us!” 

The other three people at the table paused their conversations and looked towards him with friendly grins. Wilbur raised his free hand awkwardly in greeting, sliding into an empty seat next to Eret. Across from him was the girl who’d smiled at him in the office earlier and a boy with a shaved head; a ginger kid in a hat sat on the opposite side of Eret.

“Lads, lady, this is Wilbur.” 

The girl with the pink hair extended her arm across the table to him, a sweet smile painting her lips. “I’m Niki, nice to meet you! I hope you found your way around alright.” 

“You didn’t give him a personal tour, Nik?” The bald kid at her side nudged her gently, and she laughed. 

“I don’t get paid enough for that!” 

Wilbur grasped her hand and she gave a firm shake. The boy who had nudged her put his own arm out as she withdrew, tapping Wilbur’s empty hand with his fist. 

“Jack Manifold, pleasure. Can I call you Will?” 

Still a bit overwhelmed from his experience with Dream, Wilbur simply nodded, pulling his hand back to his side of the table. A glance at Eret revealed he was glowing with happiness, seemingly thrilled that everyone was making friends. 

The ginger boy leaned in front of Eret and waved at Wilbur, nearly knocking Eret’s water bottle over in the process. “And I’m Fundy. Good to meet you.” 

“He’s our resident underclassman,” Jack teased lightly, causing Fundy to stick his tongue out at the other boy.

“Nice to meet you all,” Will offered. “Sorry, I’m not really used to meeting so many new people all at once.” 

Niki nodded in understanding. “That’s okay! We can be a bit…” She glanced to the side, where Jack and Fundy were now making obnoxious faces at each other from across the table. 

As she paused, Jack slowly turned his head towards Wilbur, a french fry stuck up one nostril, and Wilbur couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The rest of the group joined in, leading to Jack shooting the fry out of his nose, which only made them all laugh harder. Wilbur was wiping tears from his eyes by the time the giggles subsided, thoroughly overjoyed by the companionship. He started on his pizza as they all chatted, exchanging jokes and lighthearted quips. 

Near the end of the lunch period, a large crash came from the center of the cafeteria. The beanie-clad boy from Dream’s group had jumped up onto their table and was doing a dramatic karaoke rendition of some TV show’s theme song. Sapnap joined in, then the boy in the colourful sweater; a few other people around the room cheered, and Niki rolled her eyes. 

“There goes Alex again,” Jack grumbled, sticking a spoon into his pudding cup. Eret sighed in agreement. 

“You know them?” Wilbur inquired. 

Fundy made a noise of disdain. “Everybody knows them. The five of them can never get enough attention, I swear.” 

“The _Dream_ Team,” Eret mocked, earning a chuckle from Jack. The cafeteria erupted into applause and whooping as Alex bowed from the tabletop and returned to his seat as if nothing had happened. 

“Hey, do you guys think I could make it onto the fencing team?” Wilbur asked, tossing out the question as if he were asking about the weather. Jack stopped mid-spoonful. Niki’s eyes went wide, and Eret’s head whipped sideways to look at him. 

“Gross,” said Fundy. 

“Are you kidding, Will? Dream _runs_ that shit. Why would you want to be anywhere near him?” 

“They’re total jerks,” Niki scoffed. 

_Don’t mention Techno. They don’t know you’re a foster._

Wilbur shrugged. “It just seems… fun. Sports aren’t usually my thing, but it’s the closest thing to sword-fighting. I dunno.” 

Everyone seemed to accept this, returning to their meals and light conversations until the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period. 

The rest of the day went by in a blur of bland repetition. Barely anyone even acknowledged his existence, aside from a few mid-hall interactions with Tommy. He didn’t have classes with any of his new lunchtime friends, which was a bummer, but he survived the day nonetheless and was quite proud of himself as the final bell rang. Making his way to the lobby, he saw Tommy and Tubbo among the throngs of students headed out of the building and excused himself through the crowd to reach them. 

“Wilbur,” Tommy grinned as he appeared alongside them, extending out the 'r' in his name much longer than it should've been.

Tubbo waved a happy hello, and Wilbur nodded in return. “I survived.” 

“See, it wasn’t so bad,” Tubbo chirped, his ever-present smile lighting up his face. 

“You two are the ones that should have been nervous, not me, you’re the first-years!” 

Tommy waved off the remark as they moved through the lobby and out the large front doors of the school. 

“Yeah, but we’re all cool and shit. I have so many women. They all love me.” Confidently, Tommy snapped his fingers into ‘guns’ as they passed by a few girls just outside the doors. Only one of them saw, and gave a confused look before turning back to her friends. Wilbur exchanged a glance with Tubbo, who busted out laughing as a smirk spread across Tommy’s cheeks.

Nearing the road in front of the building where the busses awaited, Wilbur watched as an incredibly expensive-looking black car sped to the front of the bus line and pulled up alongside the curb over a set of painted yellow lines that clearly meant ‘no parking.’ Most people paid no attention to the car outside of a few confused glances, but a spark of recognition made its way across Tubbo’s face as he turned to Tommy with wide eyes. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye!” Without another word he took off, separating himself from the Watson boys and melting into the crowd, only to re-emerge at the passenger-side door of the fancy car a few moments later. He got in, and as soon as the door had shut, the car revved loudly and sped off just as quickly as it had came. 

Wilbur glanced quizzically at Tommy, who pretended not to notice as they boarded the bus. 

A quick ride later, the two boys disembarked at the stop across the street from Phil’s house. The air was warmer than it had been that morning, sending a few wayward leaves lightly dancing down the sidewalk. 

Wilbur put one foot in front of the other. Tommy was chattering away at his side, but Will couldn’t follow-- the reality of his predicament was setting in. 

_You don’t know how to fence. You’ve never held a sword in your life._

“... and Ranboo forgot about the pudding cup, so he…” Tommy’s voice faded in for a moment, then back out as a wave of anxiety crashed into Wilbur’s mind as the two stepped onto the black asphalt of the road, crossing to home. 

_You’re going to look like an idiot in front of everybody, if you even make the team._

“... come on, Wilby, you’re so slow…” 

_Phil will be disappointed._

He didn’t see the sleek black car speeding down the street.

He didn’t hear Tommy’s yell of warning. 

He did, however, feel the impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, I couldn't resist... 
> 
> Also, since I got a question about it I just wanted to clear this up-- Quackity is 18, he's a senior in high school which is why he's in the lunch scene! He works at Schlatt's company on the weekends and after school. Tubbo's day at work with Schlatt was on Sunday, the day before this school day takes place :) If you ever have any questions feel free to ask! 
> 
> See you all next week! <3


	9. Unfortunate Events - Tommy's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday!
> 
> Sorry for the day late upload, I had some difficulty with making this chapter feel right. Big language warning for this one, Tommy swears quite a bit. 
> 
> As always, all characters used in this are based purely on their fictional personas. If any of the creators decide they are not comfortable with fanworks, this work will be taken down immediately to respect their wishes.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“WILBUR, THE CAR!” 

Tommy felt his face contort in horror as the car barreled towards his foster brother, seemingly unstoppable-- until it wasn’t. 

The sound of screaming brakes filled the air as the driver slammed their foot down, the car skidding to a stop with only the very front of the car bumping Wilbur on the leg. He stumbled a step backwards from the force, falling flat on his butt in the middle of the street, staring up at the offending vehicle. 

“ARE YOU FUCKIN’ MAD?” Words ripped from Tommy’s throat as if they had a mind of their own, curses and insults flying at the driver without filter. 

“YOU ALMOST FUCKIN’ KILLED HIM, DICKHEAD, THERE’S A SPEED LIMIT!” 

He couldn’t see past the tinted windshield, couldn’t put a face to the driver. All he knew through was the rage boiling in his veins was that whoever it was shouldn’t have a license. 

Tommy dropped his backpack onto the sidewalk, taking large steps off the concrete towards the car. The engine purred quietly, almost calmly; Wilbur was still sitting in the middle of the road looking like a deer in the headlights. Taking it upon himself, Tommy stormed over to the driver’s side door of the fancy car, spitting curses as he tapped aggressively on the window. 

“YOU BASTARD, OPEN THE DOOR--” 

He was pushed backwards as the door flung open and it all clicked at once. 

_I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him._

J. Schlatt was stepping out of the car, a slight flash of worry painted across his usually stern face. He could hear Tubbo calling out to him from the backseat, the metal clinking as a seatbelt unbuckled, the back passenger door of the car opening. 

Tommy’s veins ran ice-cold, the seething rage replaced with a frigid, overwhelming hatred. Schlatt opened his mouth to say something, raising a hand towards Tommy, but the younger boy didn’t even give him the chance. He jumped on Schlatt like a feral animal, swinging his arms wildly and attempting desperately to hit him, just once. 

“YOU OLD FUCKIN’ PRICK,” Tommy screamed, his voice hoarse as a flood of hot tears poured from his eyes. 

Schlatt was yelling, but Tommy didn’t care; he had tackled the man to the pavement, and the two were tussling on the asphalt. Tubbo’s panicked voice broke through his haze momentarily. 

“Tommy, stop!” 

“HE COULD’VE KILLED HIM!” 

One good punch hit Schlatt directly in the face. Tommy felt the impact, saw the shock of red across his fist when he pulled away. 

_Did I just hit him?_

The next thing he knew, strong hands were pulling him away from Schlatt and holding him close, warm and familiar. He choked a sob into Phil’s chest, not even sure why he was crying. Phil waited a few moments before detaching Tommy’s arms from around his torso and moving away just enough that he could see his son’s face. In Tommy’s peripheral vision, Schlatt was picking himself up off the pavement, brushing his suit off; Tubbo was hovering near him with concern. 

“Tommy, what _happened_?” 

He hated hearing his father’s voice that way-- shocked, fearful, disappointed. 

Wilbur spoke up from behind them, having apparently gotten off the ground and snapped out of his stupor. “Phil, he-” 

“Watson, your new stray walked in front of my car,” Schlatt’s cold voice interrupted. Tubbo stood at his side, refusing to meet Tommy’s eyes. 

A small trail of crimson trickled from Schlatt’s nose. He withdrew his pocket square to wipe the blood away, his hair slightly disheveled but otherwise looking no worse for wear. Tommy felt his stomach drop at the sight. He could barely focus on anything, the anger still bubbling in his gut the least of his concerns at the moment. There was Phil, his dad, standing next to him with an unreadable mix of emotions darting across his face every other second. Wilbur was somewhere behind him, still near the car, and Tommy didn’t even know if he was okay-- Tubbo, his best friend in the world, was entirely avoiding eye contact as he clung to Schlatt’s left arm, and Schlatt himself was staring Phil down with searing intent and a terrifying smirk. 

_Why the fuck is he smiling?_

Phil took a moment to respond, choosing his words carefully. “Wilbur was just crossing from the bus stop. Can I get you a washcloth? I have some disinfectant in the house.” 

“I should sue you,” Schlatt shrugged coyly, and Tommy watched a jolt of hurt cross Tubbo’s face as the businessman tugged his arm away from the boy, taking a few steps forwards into Phil’s personal space, and by proxy, Tommy’s. 

“Your little gremlin of an adoptee punched me in the face. I should _destroy_ you.” 

Tommy channeled as much hatred into his gaze as he possibly could, pretending he was burning holes in Schlatt’s face. 

“Schlatt, please don’t, let’s just go home,” Tubbo begged from behind his guardian. The man in question ignored him, looking Phil up and down as his smirk slowly grew. 

“You can’t even control the one you’ve got,” Schlatt accused, dark eyes darting over Tommy, then to Wilbur, “and yet you’re taking in another? What are you trying to prove?” 

Tommy watched his father’s jaw clench in anger, his expression growing stormy. 

“Are you implying I can’t raise my children?” 

Schlatt barked a laugh. “What I’m _implying_ is that maybe you should know when to cut your losses.” 

“You’re a bastard,” Tommy spat, and Schlatt turned his predacious grin towards the younger boy. 

“I’m a businessman, kid. There’s a difference.” 

Despite the blood still dripping from Schlatt’s nose, Tommy lunged at him again, not sure what he was really trying to accomplish at this point. Phil caught him before he got far, pulling his son back with a firm grip on his shoulder. Schlatt let out another bout of cruel laughter at the attempt. 

“Listen, Schlatt, let me get my boys inside. I think we all need a moment to cool off. I’ll come by in a half hour and we can talk about this.” Phil’s even voice barely masked his irritation. 

Schlatt spared a quick glance at his watch. “Make it fifteen, I’ve got places to be.” Getting back into his car, Schlatt seemed to realize Tubbo’s continued presence, as if he’d forgotten he was even there. 

“Come on, Tubbo. I don’t want you to catch some disease from being around _that_ one,” he narrowed his eyes at Tommy, “for too long.” 

In a moment of idiotic boldness, Tommy decided to say the first thing that came to his mind. 

“Jokes on you, dickhead, Tubbo’s my best friend and he hasn’t gotten sick once!” 

A cool silence settled over the mid-street altercation. Tommy glanced at Tubbo, seeing the colour drain from his face, and realized what he’d done. Schlatt looked towards his charge, an odd mixture of astonishment and something akin to regret making itself known in his previously smug expression. 

_I just lost my best friend._

“Schlatt-” The brunette boy started, eyes wide.

“Get in the car.” 

The driver’s side door clicked shut, granting a finality to the statement. Tommy took a step towards Tubbo, who turned away, obediently getting back into his seat in the back. Phil herded Tommy onto the sidewalk to join Wilbur near Tommy’s fallen backpack, and they watched as Schlatt’s car pulled into the garage of the house next door.

Nobody said a word.

A few minutes later, Tommy dropped numbly onto the couch in the living room as Phil hovered over Wilbur, checking him for injuries. Wilbur assured him he was alright, but the conversation sounded distant to Tommy, as if he were underwater. 

_I punched Schlatt._

_Tubbo hates me._

_Dad’s mad at me._

_Wilbur thinks I’m crazy._

It felt like hours he sat there, swimming in his own mind, until Phil’s comforting warmth flanked him on the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Phil didn’t say anything for a minute, and then another presence was there on Tommy’s right, seated a bit further away than Phil, but there nonetheless. 

_Wilby._

“Tommy,” Phil finally said, a sterner tone creeping into his voice. “I understand what you were feeling, and I know why you reacted that way, but as much of an arse as Schlatt is, you can’t just go around punching people.” The reprimand was deserved, and Phil maintained there would be consequences to follow, but for now, they all needed to breathe. They sat there for a while, talking quietly, trying to make sense of what had happened. 

“It’s pretty cool,” Wilbur said after the conversation had lapsed, “having a brother.” 

Tommy felt the tears only when they hit his cheeks, and by then it was too late; he dissolved into sobs, with both Wilbur and Phil leaning in to comfort him. Although overjoyed by Wilbur’s acceptance of their dynamic, Tommy couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for Techno; he could see it in Phil’s eyes as well, the similarities between Wilbur and Techno almost painful to witness. 

The time Phil was supposed to head to Schlatt’s house had long since passed, and the man hadn’t come knocking. Consequently, the mood had lightened a significant amount, with Phil rising from the couch to make the boys some peanut butter and apples. 

“We should get Wilbur one of those safety vests for crossing,” Tommy joked, earning laughter from the other two as Phil came back with the plate. They all partook in the snack, trading jokes and lighthearted remarks. 

“This might be a bad time,” Wilbur mentioned after they’d all finished eating, “... but I was thinking about going out for the fencing team.” 

Tommy watched Phil’s jaw drop in shock, and felt his own expression change; Wilbur looked terrified that he’d done something wrong, until Phil’s agape mouth quickly turned to a beaming smile.

“Well, then-- I’ve got a phone call to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'll be taking a week off from uploading to catch up on writing, so no chapter next week, but we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming after that! Next chapter is planned to be a Dadschlatt centric one :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have any questions! I'm also considering going back to previous chapters and editing the timeline of the story slightly, just to leave more time in-between chapters that allows for off-screen development. 
> 
> Hope you all have a great week.

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter - @orphicskies
> 
> Thanks to Coops for being my moral support and letting me bounce ideas off them!


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